


Revelation

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 17:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7448635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is evident that she is lying to him over the matter of his face, and so he decides that he must present her with the question of a kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt from LikeLightInGlass which read "During the fortnight Christine is captive, Erik doesn't believe her lies that his face doesn't bother her. Trying to call her bluff/horrify her he asks for a kiss. To their mutual surprise, she accepts. Weepy fluffiness ensues?"

She claims that his face does not bother her, but he knows otherwise. Of course his face bothers her. It has bothered every man and woman he has ever into contact with it. And though he dearly wishes that he could believe her lies, he knows only too well that they are but lies, and the mere fact of their existence pierces his heart. She thinks that she is doing him a favour by claiming to be able to overlook his…his _monstrosity_. Dear girl, so innocent. She cannot see that her attempt at deception simply makes her horror of him all the more unbearable.

She insists that he not wear his mask. She has already burnt two of them in order to prevent him doing so, never mind that he has a stock of them in the wardrobe and they are not all that difficult to make. Some men keep collections of ties, and he has a collection of masks. It might be funny, if it did not act as a constant reminder of the _wrongness_ of his existence.

He is so tired of her pretending. It exhausts him, the knowledge that it is only pretence and she can never accept him as he is. She will never desire him in any way, never come to love him. She will find a man with wealth and good looks, curling blond locks and a whole face, and she will marry him and _he_ , Erik, _he_ will only ever haunt her nightmares and torment her.

Well, he cannot live like this with her. It is unbearable. If she would only admit that he is repulsive and permit him to wear his mask, then maybe, _maybe_ they could achieve some semblance of normalcy. And he knows that there is one way that is certain to force her confession of abhorrence.

“Christine,” he says, voice toneless as he sets aside his newspaper and focuses on her. She is exceptionally beautiful tonight, the soft light from the fire setting her hair aglow as she works on her embroidery.

“Yes, Erik?” she asks, looking up at him, one perfectly curved eyebrow raised, her hands still.

“Christine, as you insist that the abhorrence that is my face does not trouble you, I wish for you to prove it to me.” He swallows, chest achingly tight as he waits for her reply, though why he is anxious he does not know, because _of course_ his face bothers her.

“And how do you propose I do that?”

“Well.” He licks his lips, and gathers every reserve of his courage, knowing that she will reject him but having to ask for the sake of his own sanity. “I wish for you to kiss me.”

His words hang heavy in the air, his heart seeming to stop in his chest as she stares him. This is it, and the rejection is clear in the very impassiveness of her face. He takes his newspaper back in his hands and sighs, sinking deeper into his chair. Of course she has rejected him. Why would she not? It was foolish of him to ask. He will finish with the paper, fetch the mask and return her to the surface. It is impossible to stay around her now.

“Yes.” The word is tiny, almost impossible to hear, and Erik thinks for a mad moment that he has dreamt it out of sheer desperation until she says, clearer and louder, “Yes, Erik. I will kiss you.” And in a moment, before he can even move, she is leaning over the arm of his chair and her lips are pressed to his forehead.

They are so soft. So wonderful. His eyes burn, and her lips withdraw, pressed again a moment later to his cheek. The tears spill over, and he is helpless to stop them. She has kissed him, actually kissed him! No one has ever dared to before! And Christine, little dear Christine-

He can’t breathe. His lungs refuse to take in air, his throat so terribly tight. He can’t breathe and his heart is squeezing painfully. He cannot see her through the tears, but he can feel it when her arms wrap around him, hesitant at first then firm, and press his face – his terrible face! – to her chest. No one has ever kissed him before, and no one has ever dared to embrace him before unless it was to hurt and yet this girl, this dear, sweet girl is doing just that, and through his own whimpers he can hear her voice, so soft and gentle, murmuring to him.

“It is all right, Erik, dear. It is all right. Did I not tell you that your face does not trouble me. Oh, Erik. What is it that the others before did to you? They were terrible, horrible fools, all of them. I am so sorry for what they did. You did not deserve it.” And she is kissing him again, pressing her lips to his bald head and to his forehead and even to his hands, and she is kissing him though his own mother would not, and that makes the tears come again, more of them and more. “Oh, Erik. Cry all you need to. I’ll be right here, just here. I promise.”


End file.
